


Fucked Up

by Synthtraitor



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, fake achievement hunter crew
Genre: F/M, Fake AH Crew, Reader Is Injured, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthtraitor/pseuds/Synthtraitor
Summary: It turns out that when someone hits the back of your head, you get dizzy, and when someone forgets a knife in your gut, you lose some blood. Some people aren't as okay with that as you.





	1. Fucked Up

**Author's Note:**

> Request: Hmmm... for the fahc reader insert requests, maybe some fahc Michael/reader? Maybe either the readers first real heist with the Fakes or Michael's reaction to the reader getting hurt on a heist? Idk anything is good really, so long as it isn't too depressing

Something connects with the back of your head and you flail forward, stumbling over your sneakers and nearly falling flat on your face as the pain whites out your mind. The pressure of the heist mutes, burns fuzzy at the back of your conscious thought and your brain scrambles to catch up, and your body acts on your behalf.

With a too-quick spin that leaves you over-correcting with one foot raised off the ground, you fire off three blind shots and someone screams, then someone else shouts, and then you’re rushed by a man wearing a black uniform and a nice scarf tucked neatly into his collar.

The air in your lungs is forced out of you as the knife enters your body, and in a knee-jerk reaction, you grab the man’s blonde hair and yank him to the ground next to you in one smooth, solid motion. You stumble under the momentum and over your unsteady feet, and try to blink the lights away.

It’s loud, too loud and the overhead lights seem to flare. You flex your fingers and remember the gun in your hand with a heavy moan.

At the same moment, the guard shouts and hits the floor, one hand caught under his cheek and another clawing at the open air, failing to catch himself completely as his head rocks back with the force of the hit.

You tell your arm to raise your gun, but the action’s delayed, like your body has suddenly decided it doesn’t like taking orders all that much – which, speaking realistically, it doesn’t, but… You know, like, it usually has to when the orders come from you.

Someone you should recognize shouts – he shouldn’t be shouting, you have silencers on your guns for a reason – and it makes you shake your head to get rid of the dampers on your ears. The guard, in his confusion, hesitates.

So do you.

You bring a hand up to your stomach and your shirt is now warm and wet. You graze the handle sticking out of your abdomen with your fingers and a sharp, cold, fire shoots through your nerves.

The guard turns around, eyes refocusing, and launches himself up at you but you stick two bullets into him before he can reclaim the knife he forgot in your stomach and he crumples back onto the floor, warm, but dead.

Everything happens in short, two second scenes as blinking becomes more and more of a chore. You take a step back, you take three more. You bring a hand up to your head and your handgun clanks against your forehead, the subsequent vibration rocking through you all the way to your toes. With a gasp, you slide your hand farther back and find the hair on the back of your head sticky.

Your vision swims and it’s a good metaphor because, actually, your body feels like it’s swimming right now, like the air is suddenly thicker and has decided to begin bargaining with your lungs instead of just... supplying you with the necessary oxygen like it usually does because existence in it’s entirety sucks balls.

You’re on a ship and you’re seasick and you’re gonna puke over the side-railing.

You need to rest. It’s been a long day. A too-long day. Was… Was somebody supposed to be with you? Wasn’t Gavin supposed to be watching that exit?

You turn and sit on your ass with your legs sticking out and your hands resting in your lap, trying to figure out why you’re here.

You feel cold and so the logical thing to do next is throw up.

Michael touches your face – when did he get here? – and you smile the way you do when you wake up to him scooching closer to you on stay-in-bed mornings. When he rests a hand on the back of your neck and kisses the top of your head like a fucking moron stupid idiot – you hate him – and you close your eyes and try to lull yourself to sleep with his breathing the way you always do.

He shakes you awake like an asshole, his face frantic as he tries to pull you up by your arms, he’s got his mask pulled up and you realize you do too.

You shake him off.

He says something.

You ignore him.

Your mouth tastes sour and disgusting and your throat burns with stomach acid.

You’re tired.

You go to sleep.

 

You wake up and get an eyeful of orange streetlights and a matte navy blue sky. The car jolts and forces a hushed groan out of you. Someone moves your legs so you’re not lying bunched up against the door. Someone holds your head with rough hands.

You go to sleep.

 

You wake up and see the bottom of Ryan’s chin as he carries you. His steps make you hurt. You smile just a little and when he looks down at you, you see his blue eyes behind his mask and you go to sleep.

 

You wake up and you can’t breath. There’s shouting and bright lights in your face and someone’s hands press down on your shoulders just before you suck in a breath as someone presumably peels back your skin from your body. It’s the only logical reason for all of this pain.

You sweat and shake and shout and cry and you bring up your hands to try and get the pressure off of your shoulders, and you curl your knees and try to kick but more hands grab your legs and some one presses their palm to your cheek and then something beeps and it numbs.

Something stings distantly.

You go to sleep.

 

You wake up.

You feel cold.

You go to sleep.

 

White light streams in through the window and you recognize the bright blue ceiling of the infirmary easily. Michael stares down at you like he’s just taken a trip to the land of the dead and back. He doesn’t speak, just breathes like he can’t get enough air out through his nostrils, and just holds your hand to his forehead in a paradoxically subdued, yet tense-with-anguish gesture.

You know he has knots in his shoulders.

 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Michael says after Kerry takes you off morphine and prescribes you pills instead. You blink the effects of the mind-numbing drug away and smile straight to his angry face.

“I’m being fucking serious.” Michael fists the front of your shirt as you look up at him with something warm balling up in your chest. “You scared the ever-living shit out of me!” He continues and the way his voice turns up at the edges makes your smile do the same and the huffy laugh escapes your lips contrasts his mood.

The sound pulls at your stitches and makes your eyebrows screw up but the sentiment is still there and it makes Michael pinch his lips together as he continues to stare down at you, half sitting on your bed, half poised to flee.

His hair’s wild, but it’s always wild, brushed across his forehead and tucked behind his ears. He looks a little sick, paler in a way that makes his freckles stand out and his eyes are less focused, scattered as he looks at you.

“This isn’t a laughing matter.” He says with a stale voice, gesturing with his chin to your stab wound.

“I mean… It’s kind of funny.” You say with a happy voice, ignoring him.

“You’re fucked up.” He says with an even staler voice.

“Yea, I guess so.” You say with an even happier voice, eyes shining as he loosens his fist and presses his palm into your chest, just above where your heart beats – beats – beats.

His face loosens and the lines fade and he lets out a sigh then looks at your face, eyes half-lidded and mouth drawn into a soft, malleable line. “I hate you.” He says it with no venom in his voice and you curl at his tone.

“You don’t really.” You reach up and set a hand on his jaw, a light touch that he leans into with closed eyes and a smile dampened by a sadness that runs deep.

“No, I don’t.”

“Kiss me?”

He lets out a shaky breath and nods, “Yea. Okay.”

He does.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want a goddamn beach, so you get one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done w this but I guess not

“Beach property, Geoff.” You fit your hand over your heart like you’ve been wounded, and curl forward to further sell the gesture, “It’s the only way I’ll ever heal.” To be fair, your theatrics really do sort of hurt your still-healing abdomen. 

Michael snorts in response, tightening the arm thrown around your shoulders and you ignore him, instead choosing to glare determinedly up at your boss.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Geoff frowns down at you from the edge of the couch, an old tank-top hanging low on his shoulders and his face as permanently sunburned as everybody else’s.

“You know, I’ve been told that a lot and I don’t think it helps me feel better.” You give him a pitying look, “It’s mental, you know? I need to feel like I can get better before I do, and I just… Being called names doesn’t help my mental state. I think I… I might need, like, a nice patio now, too.”

“This is blackmail.” Geoff crosses his arms and Michael laughs again, this time joined by Ryan from across the couch. 

“Is it really, though?” You goad. 

“Yes.” Geoff doesn’t take the bait. 

“I was stabbed!”

Geoff opens his mouth, but Ryan beats him to it, eyes trained on the TV, “We’ve all been stabbed.”

“Aaand everyone was entitled to some sort of compensation for their struggles!” You half-argue, “ _You_  guys just never asked!”

“Because  _we’re_  not whiny bitches.” 

“No,” You scoff at Ryan, “it’s because you just didn’t think to.”

“You’re so full of shit.” 

“See! See! That, Geoff!” You jump up to point at Ryan accusingly as he continues to play his game, and unconsciously bring a hand up to your abdomen at the twinge of pain that results from the sudden movement, “That shit is exactly why I need some nice property with a private beach!” 

Michael drags you back down next to him in an insistent motion, and you follow willingly as Geoff sputters, content to curl your knees and lean against his body.

“Private beach?!” Geoff exclaims, “You never said anything about a private beach!”

“Well, people just keep being assholes to me!”

“This is  _not_  going to become a thing, (Y/N).”

“You’re sharing, right?” Michael says and you turn away from Geoff in favor of paying attention to him, soaking up his freckles and reveling in his gaze. 

“Wha – ‘Course I will. It’ll be ours, babe.” 

“Seriously, I’m not paying for your house.” Geoff warns no one and makes himself into a hypocrite two days later.

* * *

“Hip deep, asshole.” Michael calls out to you from his towel. “I’m fucking watching you.”

“Yea, yea, I know.” You wave your hand dismissively and stare out at the horizon, where the ocean ends and the sky turns a blue so light it verges on white. The ocean recedes to your shins, then comes rushing back at you, the tips of the waves folded and white. The water reaches the tops of your thighs and you want to swim. 

Your hair curls with the salt and humidity and Michael’s fizzes, but you want more from the ocean. You want to feel the sand on your stomach and feel the water rush over you as you duck under waves. 

The bottoms of your shorts are soaked and so is your underwear, but you left your shirt next to Michael on the beach and you’re letting the injury air in the fresh open breeze, the cool air making the raw nerve endings fizzle a manageable amount. With a sigh, you pick at your bra strap and turn back towards Michael, who’s got his face turned towards you, eyes squinting in the sun as he watches. 

The ocean water recedes and comes crashing back, forcing you to sway with the force, but you don’t reposition your feet, just raise a hand out towards the shore behind you, and Michael swears in a quick fit, then marches over towards you, kicking off his sandals at the edge of the water and then sloshing his way over to you. 

Like the waves crashing into the shore, he grabs your hand and slots himself into your personal space and you turn so you’re facing the beach and he’s facing the ocean and your nose is in the buried in the crook of his neck and you feel his sun-soaked shirt against your temple. 

He’s careful not to touch the stitches in your head when he brings a heavy hand up to hold you closer and you’re so, so, so grateful for everything that’s ever happened to you in the entirety of your miniscule life.


End file.
